LANCIOTTO.  I am all ears.

  PEPE.  Why, so an ass might say.

  LANCIOTTO.  Will you be serious?

PEPE.  Wait a while, and we
Will both be graver than a church-yard.  Well,
Down the long walk, towards me, came your wife,
With Count Paolo walking at her side. 
It was a pretty sight, and so I stepped
Into the bushes.  Ritta came with them;
And Lady Fanny had a grievous time
To get her off.  That made me curious. 
Anon, the pair sat down upon a bank,
To read a poem;—­the tenderest romance,
All about Lancelot and Queen Guenevra. 
The Count read well—­I’ll say that much for him—­
Only he stuck too closely to the text,
Got too much wrapped up in the poesy,
And played Sir Lancelot’s actions, out and out,
On Queen Francesca.  Nor in royal parts
Was she so backward.  When he struck the line—­
“She smiled; he kissed her full upon the mouth;”
Your lady smiled, and, by the saints above,
Paolo carried out the sentiment! 
Can I not move you?

LANCIOTTO.  With such trash as this? 
And so you ran ten leagues to tell a lie?—­
Run home again.

PEPE.  I am not ready yet. 
After the kiss, up springs our amorous Count,
Flings Queen Guenevra and Sir Lancelot
Straight to the devil; growls and snaps his teeth,
Laughs, weeps, howls, dances; talks about his love,
His madness, suffering, and the Lord knows what,
Bullying the lady like a thief.  But she,
All this hot time, looked cool and mischievous;
Gave him his halter to the very end;
And when he calmed a little, up she steps
And takes him by the hand.  You should have seen
How tame the furious fellow was at once! 
How he came down, snivelled, and cowed to her,
And fell to kissing her again!  It was
A perfect female triumph!  Such a scene
A man might pass through life and never see. 
More sentiment then followed—­buckets full
Of washy words, not worth my memory. 
But all the while she wound his Countship up,
Closer and closer; till at last—­tu!—­wit!—­
She scoops him up, and off she carries him,
Fish for her table!  Follow, if you can;
My fancy fails me.  All this time you smile!

  LANCIOTTO.  You should have been a poet, not a fool.

  PEPE.  I might be both.

LANCIOTTO.  You made no record, then? 
Must this fine story die for want of ink? 
Left you no trace in writing?

  PEPE.  None.

LANCIOTTO.  Alas! 
Then you have told it?  Tis but stale, my boy;
I’m second hearer.

  PEPE.  You are first, in faith.

  LANCIOTTO.  In truth?

PEPE.  In sadness.  You have got it fresh? 
I had no time; I itched to reach your ear. 
Now go to Rimini, and see yourself. 
You’ll find them in the garden.  Lovers are
Like walking ghosts, they always haunt the spot
Of their misdeeds.